


Strikeout

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Father son relationship, Fluff, Gen, batfamily, with a touch of humorous violence on account of devious furniture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Damian sets high expectations for himself, things don’t go as planned.<br/>(In which Bruce leaves his son to his own devices and comes to regret it. Not as scary as it sounds, it's a humor fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strikeout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DawnsEternalLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/gifts).



“All right, on three. One, two, th–”

 _Beep, beep, beep_.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire extraordinaire, glanced down at his phone. He gestured to his son to step away from the wooden bureau and calmly took the call. “Hello?”

Damian released his grip and shifted. The voice on the line sounded like a Wayne Industries employee, Sammy or Susie or whatever. He glanced down at his sneakers. Father was needed at work, he knew. That meant this “rugged male bonding through placing furniture in the attic” or whatever it was they were doing would be cut short. Very well. Damian could complete the task by himself. He’d finish in a timely manner and head to the cave and practice with the new katanas (of course, Father did not necessarily have to know about that. The man had been ridiculous about the entire blade affair. Damian did not understand it, nor did he want to. He had been brought up on daggers and he certainly didn’t want to lose his edge with them, so to speak. The boy merely wanted to cut some dummies to shreds without someone going ballistic over the “safety” of pointed objects without “supervision” because he could “cut himself and Dick’s near-miss with his thumb was a lesson learned too well”).

Damian scowled.

Tt. Not likely.

“Very well,” The man was finishing up, buttoning his cuffs. “I’ll be there shortly. Thank you, Sandra.” With a click, the conversation was summarily finished. Bruce glanced over at the ten year old, whose hands were stubbornly engulfed in his hoodie pockets. “I must go to the office,” he explained haltingly.

“Indeed, Father.”

“Damian,” he began. The boy looked up at him, face void of malice or sorrow. He simply stood, body and mind alert. Sometimes it unsettled the father how often his child was battle-ready at any given moment. Yet it also had its benefits, causing less concern over his son’s independence. Yes, there was little doubt that Damian would operate alone adequately while he was away. “We may continue this when I return, unless you wish…” He glanced at the bench in the corner.

“Yes, Father,” Damian assured him. The child doesn’t smile, because he finds it doesn’t suit his face but he nods. “I’m capable of finishing this. You go.”

Bruce strode to the doorway, already preparing his mind for the professional setting. He stopped. “Alfred is out.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t open the front door for just anyone.”

“Of course not, Father. I intend to open it only for bikers and addicts. They are the most fun, you know.”

“Don’t forget drunks.”

“That’s your chosen crowd, I’m afraid. I cannot wrangle the weepers.”

Bruce almost chuckled. “All right,” he told his son. Yet he wavered in the doorway. “Are you sure?” he questioned, sounding a little more parental than intended.

Damian stiffened. Before he could let any intrusive thoughts have their way, he waved his hand airily. “Positive. You go. _Vous allez_. _Te mész_. _Anata ga ikimasu_.”

Bruce nodded and, thankfully, left. Damian waited several minutes, shuffling his feet until he heard the car wheels growl against the gravel.

Finally.

The youngest Wayne whipped around and fixed his gaze on the tall bureau. It wasn’t too large, but was plenty heavy. However, he could manage it. Why, with some clever balance work, he’d be done and practicing with those beautiful katanas in ten minutes.

He rubbed his hands together. Let the carrying commence.

* * *

 

He didn’t understand.

Father could do it. Why couldn’t he?

Damian tugged at the bottom corner, muscles straining. He gritted his teeth.

Two. Hours.

Two hours of this endless nonsense.

This was no longer an inconvenience. This was an assault on his honor.

“You piece of sh–” Damian stopped, glancing around the room warily. Last time he had cursed he had gotten smacked with a newspaper by Pennyworth. Sneaky butler. He hadn’t even heard him come up behind him until his posterior smarted.

“Pennyworth?” he called out.

Nothing.

Excellent.

The ten year old stretched his arms overhead and shook out his legs. He glowered at the bureau and informed it drily, “I am the Son of Bat. My genes were handpicked after generations of research. I can best a piece of lowly furniture.”

The bureau looked back at him.

Damian smirked and grasped a shelf.

 _WHAP_!

The shelf shot out and struck him in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. Damian sputtered like a fish out of water. The shelf rattled, vibrating the other loose wood planks, but eventually settled back into its place.

The bureau preened.

“Oh,” he heaved after recovering his breath, baring his teeth, “so that’s how it is, is it?” He rolled up his sleeves.

The infernal junk creaked.

Damian’s eyebrows arched high upon his head.

 _It was goading him_.

Damian growled. He was Robin. He was the Wayne heir. He would claim victory. The former assassin knocked the lug of wood.

 _Bam_!

The door swung open and knocked him in the eye. “ _Elif air ab tizak_!” he screamed, clutching his visual appendage. The boy placed his fist in his mouth, biting down to stave off curses. Oh, but did his injury hurt. He slowly opened his eye, wincing at the pain. Blinking twice and deciding that blurry vision wasn’t top priority, Damian whirled around to glare at the fiendish furniture.

“That’s strike one,” he seethed, kicking the door closed.

It swung open.

He kicked it again.

It swung open.

He narrowed his eyes.

 _Bam_!

 _Swish_.

 _Bam_!

 _Swish_.

 _Bam bam bam bam bam bAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM **BAM**_!

… _Swish_.

“I’m gonna…” he fumed, “I’m gonna…I swear I’ll…you dirty son..I’m gonna–I’m gonna finish my sentence, that’s what I’m going to do!”

The door swayed intermittently, like a sashaying red cape before a bull.

Damian clenched his fists. Be calm, he told himself. Logic, not emotion. It is wood, you are flesh. There was a way out of this. His eyelids closed as he brought his arms over head, clasping his palms together. “Namaste,” he murmured in an exhale as he lowered his hands to his chest. The boy wrinkled his nose. That was a stupid technique. He must inform Brown of her misgiving. Namaste was a greeting in Sanskrit, not a Yoga tranquilizer.

He opened his eyes. There was a problem with the door, clearly. Perhaps the hinge or lock clasp. Surveying the external form, Damian shook his head and decided that it must be the lock clasp. The child, dissatisfied with his small height (he was not intimidated, don’t be preposterous), stepped into the huge closet. Now if he could just see the lock clas—

 _Click_.

The door swished shut. The light was sucked out from the area. Damian grouchily pushed the door back open.

It didn’t budge.

“Are you serious?” he asked it incredulously. He pushed once more.

Not an inch.

A kick, then.

Nope.

Shoulder whack.

Nada.

Damian stepped backwards into the dark recess of the closet. Clearly, the only remaining solution to the problem was a body slam.

So be it.

The ten year old squared himself off. He set his jaw. He bent his legs and ran and—

 _SLAM_!

The door burst open. The boy was hurled through the atmosphere, limbs flailing like a drunk spider.

 _Thunk_!

 _SKIIIIIIIIIIID_.

 _Thwack_!

Damian’s blinked blearily. His neck felt like a cooked noodle. His dark head wobbled from side to side as he gazed down at his arms’ rug rash. It felt numb. The back of his head had bumped against the wall. That felt numb too.

Well, at least the door was closed. It had ricocheted on the corner and shut itself.

He stared at it dazedly. That was good, he supposed.

What was not good was the Ancient Greek vase wobbling to and fro near the door frame. Damian bit his lip. Greek=good. Broken=bad.

“Catch me,” it purred to him, black glaze sparkling in the sunlight.

It was Amphora type. It was priceless. It was going to shatter.

Damian threw himself to his feet and nearly screeched. He barreled across the room, dodging the cat. The vase wiggled, obliging gravity.  

His fingers reached out and—

 _He grasped it_.

Success!

Then the ground disappeared.

Oh, he thought as he was lurched through the air, _oh no_.

 _Bang_! _Bang_! _Bang_! _Bang_! went his body as he tumbled down the stairs, protecting the vase with his arms and chest. He caught himself on the landing, digging his heels in and stubbing his toe on the corner of the wall.

“Woof.” The dog gazed at his battered master, nudging the child with his snout.

“Titus,” Damian rasped, making eye contact with the German Shepard. “This house is conspiring against me. Paranoia and constant vigilance is advised, as you are my animal companion and may be given ill-will due to our connection.”

“Woof.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Although his vision did swim as he made his way back up the stairs. “That’s strike two,” he groaned as he entered the room, stumbling off balance and falling onto the mangled rug. The child felt nauseous. Obviously it had to do with his defeat. His superior genes could not manage the vile concept flowing in his veins.

The only process of action was to persevere and lift that heinous bureau to the attic.

Damian spotted a roll of duct tape on the vase table. He grinned.

* * *

 

Maniacal laughter echoed from beyond the corridor.

“And take this, you insufferable cretin!” A long strip of duct tape was placed upon a several layers covering the door. “And that!” A strip across the shelf. “And that!” A strip across the bottom drawers. “And—” the duct tape snagged on a top drawer. It ripped, roll whirling and crashing out the window.

Silence.

Damian gaped at the hole in the glass. He cleared his throat and placed his hands on his hips. “Alfred,” he addressed the feline reproachfully, “ _what_ did you _do_?”

“Mreow.”

“I know, I know, but it’s your turn to take the blame.”

“Mreow.”

“I took it last time.”

“Mreoooow.”

“Can you just do this for me, please?”

Alfred wouldn’t look at him. Damian swore loudly, rubbing his eyes (ouch, still swollen). Now Alfred was displeased with him. And displeasure from human Alfred would swiftly follow (probably with a newspaper). The child snuck a withering glance over his shoulder at the bureau.

“It’s all your fault,” he accused.

Loser, replied the bureau.

“You want to play this game?” he snarled.

Come at me bro, the piece taunted.

Damian growled and shoved the diabolic object. He crowed as he turned away, smile gathering at his lips. The asinine bureau couldn’t fight back. Thank you, marvelous duct tape.

 _Wham_!

One moment he’s on his feet, the next his spine is against the floor.

“Help!” he shouted, squirming under the mammoth weight. “Father! Pennyworth! Father!” Damian winced, lungs deflating akin to popped balloons. “Anybody?” he squeaked.

Oh. There was his spleen. Nice to know he still had it, unlike some people.

And he was blacking out.

Wonderful.

It was pathetic that his family toiled so hard for his resurrection and he shall die underneath a bureau. The circumstances were pathetic. Damian was pathetic.

His eyelids fluttered closed. Life seemed like a worthless endeavor when a shattered chest cavity was in the near future. Damian had wanted to lift the bureau and make it to the attic. He had wanted to finish the job. He had wanted Father to be…proud.  

The boy snapped to attention. Lifting still may be possible. Damian grunted, dragging his knees to his chest and rocking onto the balls of his heels. His feet sufficiently planted on the floor, Damian brought his arms forward and used his leg muscles to raise the bureau up and away.

Yes. Yes! It was in a prime location for dragging. Now if he could swivel—

A pad of feet was heard and Alfred jumped lightly on the furniture.

“Alfred,” the ten year old panted, shoulders shaking, “get off.”

“Mreow.”

Vindictive little creature.

His body quivered. His head felt woozy. His hands felt raw. But he could do this.

 _Sssssk_.

The drawer in front of his face (that _same top drawer_ ) slipped out of its case.

No.

 _Sssssk_!

It clocked him in the nose.

Blood commenced pouring and Damian leaned away from the wooden contraption. It slid down his front and the boy heard an awful rending sound.

Damian closed his eyes, blood drip, drip, dripping onto the split fabric.

“That,” he intoned lowly, “was my favorite hoodie.”

The electric blue eyes flashed open.

“Strike three.”

With a roar, Damian tossed the evil bureau clear across the room. It hit the floor with a smack and he fell upon it with a rage akin to cannibalistic feasting.

* * *

 

Bruce placed his keys upon the designated hook. Wayne Industry meetings were vaguely enlightening, but often full of obstinate board members. He shook his head. After dealing with his son, he found the behavior easier to handle (or was it the opposite?) No matter. Damian was likely be more cooperative after practicing with the banned katanas for patrol tonight. Bruce’s lips curved into a small smile. The boy thought he had not noticed. Bruce was willingly to look the other way for certain situations. He was a reasonable man.

Yet when he checked the cave it was void of Damian’s presence, katanas untouched.

The man’s lips downturned. Odd. Not alarming, but certainly odd. It was possible the boy was in his room. Unless…

Bruce sighed.

* * *

 

“I’m going to kill you,” Damian vowed, kneeling in pain. His lip was split. Dark bruises scattered across his body. His knuckles were rusty colored from blood.  “I know we don’t kill, but I’m going to conveniently assume that that rule only applies to sentient beings. You,” he said, pointing vengefully, “are going to die. In one minute. Just permit a moment of rest.” Damian sagged to the floor. “I’m not giving up,” he told it weakly. “This is a break. A recess. A time-out. I just need,” he coughed into his cut hands, “a time-out.”

“I agree.”

The child whipped around. “Father!” he exclaimed, eyes widening.

Bruce noticed his son’s vision was wavering to and fro. He took note of the injuries (practicing with the katanas would have been less lethal). He raised a brow. “Damian,” he began, “what are you doing?”

The boy brought his knees to his chest and curled around them. “Just,” he replied thickly after several long moments, nose clogged from blood, “just carrying the bureau to the attic.”

The father cleared his throat. “…Carrying the bureau to the attic?” he parroted back.

Damian nodded.

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “I see.” Of course Damian endeavored to carry the bureau to the attic. Bruce should have been clearer with his instructions that he was referring to the bench. The man gazed at the bruised and bloody little boy. Next time he was taking his son out back for a nice game of catch. He had failed the parenting thing. Again.

The room went quiet.

“And what,” Bruce pointed to the wooden shambles, “is that?”

The child paused, response delayed. “Vengeance,” he finally answered simply.

“For?”

“ _Everything_.”

All right then. His son could not be left alone to his own devices; it was beneficial to have this knowledge for the future. Bruce stepped forward. Damian scrambled to his feet. The man noticed he swayed. “Let’s fix your injuries,” he mused, making his way over the remains of wood.

The ten year old bristled. “No need,” he told his father brusquely. “I shall heal soon enough.”

Bruce repressed sighing a very long sigh. “Damian, you need to have your injuries checked.”

“I am aware of my injuries, Father.”

This stubbornness was familiar. Bruce narrowed his eyes, suspect of a concussion. Symptoms included appearing dazed and irritability. “Damian, go to the med bay.”

“No!”

“ _Damian Wayne_.”

“No,” Damian shot back wilfully. He crossed his arms and planted himself firmly in an obstinate stance. “I shan’t.”

Bruce stuck his tongue in his cheek and surveyed his youngest. After several long moments, he seemingly came to terms on the current predicament and nodded.

Only to pluck Damian from the ground and tuck the child in his arms.

“Father!” Damian protested. He kicked wrathfully. “My vengeance!” The child glared at the bureau as he was carried away. Three strikes and you’re out, he vowed.

“It can wait. Didn’t you hear?” the man replied in exasperation, ruffling his son’s hair amusedly, “You need a time-out.”


End file.
